


Imperial Justice

by GalacticHalfling



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, How they got imprisoned, Slight Fantastic Racism, oneshot trilogy, runaway Altmer noble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticHalfling/pseuds/GalacticHalfling
Summary: Zazira planned to travel to Skyrim. She barely got to the border before the trouble started...Numirien just wanted to get away from her family and an arranged marriage. But she wasn't quite prepared for life as a nobody far from home.(Or: How the Dragonborn and the Hero of Kvatch ended up imprisoned.)If my inspiration doesn't run out I will add the chapter for the Nerevarine soon.
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	1. Zazira Llelwyn - The Last Dragonborn

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [regretfulghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regretfulghost/pseuds/regretfulghost) in the [Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> How did your Nerevarine/Hero of Kvatch/Last Dragonborn end up on a ship to Morrowind/in the Imperial Prisons/caught crossing the boarder into Skyrim? Write one, two, or all three of the scenarios, it's up to the writer.

_15th of Last Seed 201 4E, Bruma_

"Skyrim, you say? Lass, I don't think you should be going there."

Zazira frowned at the bar tender. "Why ever not?"

"Well, normally I would be happy if someone choses to pay the proud land of my ancestors a visit, don't get me wrong. It's just – well, there's been word of unrest over in the Old Kingdom lately. People got pretty upset with the Concordat. It's gonna be a full-blown war, I tell you."

Zazira wanted to ask more, but another patron got ahead of her, dismissing the bar tender's tale with a scoff. "Bah, Falstav, you're 'n old doom-monger. Those 'Stormcloaks' are little more than a band of scoundrels. The legion has everything under control. Don't you go around scaring pretty ladies with your overblown tales of woe." He clapped a hand on Zazira's shoulder and gave her a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, though to her it only looked patronizing. "There's nothing to be concerned about. There are many good men in Skyrim who keep the country safe. Just stay on the roads and you'll be fine."

"Still," Falstav, the bar tender, eyed Zazira, lingering on her gear which was admittedly still rather new and unused, "if traveling the world is what you want, starting with some place safer couldn't hurt."

They were trying to be helpful, but at that point Zazira started to feel a little offended. Especially, since she doubted that these Nords had any way of telling that she was _really_ as young as she looked. "I can take care of myself," she huffed. "And it's hardly the first time I'm traveling somewhere. Just the first time without a caravan." Zazira had never fought anything worse than wild animals or the occasional robber. But her mother had made sure that she was adequately trained in combat. And as a womer born into the Great House Redoran, Tamisu Llelwyn had held high standards of what she considered 'adequate'.

"If you say so," the bar tender said, but the genuine look of concern on his face made Zazira feel momentarily bad for getting annoyed at him. Clearly he meant well.

"I _do_ know how to shoot straight with this one," she patted her bow, "and I know where to stick the pointy end of that," she gestured towards her sword. "It's kind of you to worry. But I'm not seeking some mad adventure. I just need a change of scenery. It might not be safe, but nothing ever is. Not even staying home." She winced as she added the last part. A memory flashed through her mind of the day the Thalmor armies had invaded the Imperial City. Of a child huddled in the basement while above the burning house collapsed. She shook her head. That was long in the past. Still, it was a reminder that danger could come to you whether you were looking for it or not.

The two Nords didn't seem to have noticed her brief discomfort. "Well spoken," the tavern patron laughed.

"Any way, if I want to reach the Pale Pass before dusk I should get going," Zazira got a hand full of coins from her purse and put it on the bar. "Thanks for the drinks and the advice. Have a nice day, everyone."

_15th of Last Seed 201 4E, Pale Pass_

Zazira let out a string of curses in Dunmeris, Tamrielic, and a couple of languages in which she knew nothing beyond swear words.

There were notoriously few ways from Cyrodiil into Skyrim. The Pale Pass was the only one big enough for travel by cart. And even that way was perilous. Still, Zazira knew the path well; it was the middle of Last Seed; and she was traveling by horse. It should have been easy.

That's what she had thought before she saw the mountain of snow burying the pass underneath.

For a moment she considered turning around and going back to Cyrodiil. There was no real need to go to Skyrim. Sure, they did have a magical college of some renown, and the biggest community of Dunmer outside of Morrowind. It was the first place for men to ever set foot on Tamriel, a place steeped in the history of mankind's rise to power. Zazira had read so much about it in books, so much that she itched to confirm with her own eyes, or maybe even disprove. Things that she had never had the time to investigate when accompanying her father on his mercantile expeditions. But Skyrim was hardly the only place with interesting history to discover. In fact, the Nords could be rather unfriendly towards Dunmer. Maybe she should travel to High Rock instead? See the Adamantine Tower with her own eyes? Or Valenwood? If she wanted to see something strange and fascinating those jungles would be the perfect place. Of course they were also crawling with Thalmor – but she was a nobody; she could keep her head down and be fine...

Zazira had already turned Dinsi, her mare, around to ride back the way she had come, when her stubbornness kicked in. From the very moment that she had sold her father's company she had planned to go to Skyrim. Her parents had first met each other in Windhelm, so there was some personal history in Skyrim for Zazira. And she had been there a couple of times before, so it was a perfect start for her travels. She wouldn't let a stupid heap of snow get in the way of her plans! She imagined returning to Bruma, entering the tavern, and getting the 'I told you so' looks from the bar tender. No way! She wanted to travel all over Tamriel eventually. She would _not_ start by giving up so easily!

She dismounted with a vigorous leap, and pulled Dinsi after her while she started to look for deer paths. There had to be some way to cross the mountains beside the Pale Pass...

_16th of Last Seed 201 4E, Jerall Mountains_

The woods were so dark that Zazira could scarcely see the next foot of ground in front of her even with a flame spell burning in her hand. She had lost track of time hours ago. And more importantly she had – though she hated to admit it – got very, very lost. The wet cold of snow had seeped through her boots, and she could barely feel the hand that was still holding the reigns of her horse. Her map had been entirely useless – off the road it wasn't accurate or detailed at all. Nothing but pretty little images of rocks and trees. Zazira had even pulled her copy of 'The Firmament' out of her backpack to try and navigate by the night sky. But once she had finally found a place where the trees didn't cover her view of the stars she had realized that there were too many clouds to get a good look at the sky.

"No worry. I'll just have to wait for dawn. Then I'll know which direction is east, so I can keep north. Sooner or later I'll end up in Skyrim and get out of the mountains," Zazira muttered to herself. She knew that there was no sense in continuing further during the night. But the idea of setting up camp on the icy, snow covered ground didn't seem very appealing, and so she stumbled around in the dark, hoping to find a better place for sleeping.

Suddenly, she heard shouting voices. It was distant, and she couldn't make out words, but those were definitely _people_. Zazira stopped and strained her ears to hear more. Most likely she should give those people a wide berth. Anyone who stalked around in the woods in the middle of nowhere was probably a robber or a necromancer. Or lost. Obviously.

There was more shouting and then the distinct metallic clank of swords. Zazira tensed. A fight! She should run away quickly. But... she didn't even know what was going on... there might be someone in need of help...

She was going to regret this. No doubt. With a sigh Zazira laid a hand on Dinsi's muzzle to hopefully make the mare understand that she should keep quite. Leading the animal at the reigns she slowly edged closer to the noises of battle. Zazira blamed her mother's attempts to beat a sense of honor into her. Or maybe it was her father's constant nicety that had rubbed off on her? A mix of both maybe? Oh, who was she kidding? She had nothing to blame but her own big, bleeding heart and her constant curiosity.

She could see the flickering light of torches between the trees. The noise of swords clashing, the shouting, and screaming grew louder. Zazira cancelled her flame spell and gripped her bow as she carefully moved toward the sight of the battle.

Finally she could get a good look at the scene. A group of legionaries was fighting – and by the looks of it winning – against a group of Nords. Unlike usual robbers they seemed to wear uniforms. Were those the rebels Falstav had been talking about? Anyway, it seemed that Zazira wasn't needed here. And the situation was far too risky to ask anyone for directions. Better get away before she got in the way. Setting her feet carefully she walked backwards.

That's when Dinsi neighed loudly. The sound was answered by another horse very close by. "Dinsi, you stupid nag!" Zaizira hissed. Tugging roughly at her horse's reigns she turned around and tried to run away only to stumble against someone. She bit back a scream of surprise. Unfortunately the other person didn't.

"Some are hiding in the bushes! Get them, soldiers!" one of the legionaries, probably their officer, bellowed.

"Who – I've got nothing to do with this. The horse isn't stolen, honest!" the person in front of Zazira blurted out. The voice sounded young and male.

"Shut up and RUN, s'wit!" Zazira bit out fear and fury mixing in her stomach. That silly boy was wasting precious seconds! For a moment she contemplated turning back to fight. But if she drew her sword on a legionary she would brand herself a criminal. She ran.

She didn't get far before pain erupted in her head, and the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zazira blames Lokir (until he dies, then she'll feel bad for him).  
> 


	2. Numirien Silinire - The Hero of Kvatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Numirien is a young Altmer noble who is fed up with the stiffling rules guiding her life, so she decides to run away. But the life as a nobody in a foreign land has unsuspected pitfalls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out slightly more silly than I planned. The chapter about the Nerevarine will probably don't have the same humorous tone.  
> I didn't play Oblivion nearly as much as I played Skyrim or Morrowind so my headcanons involving the Hero of Kvatch are less fleshed-out as well, I hope it doesn't show in this story.

_27 th of Last Seed 433 4E, Imperial City_

Numirien's first impression of the Imperial City was one of overwhelming diversity. The moment she stepped from the ship she was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a big port. But she didn't marvel at the number of ships or the architecture but at the lizards and cats and orcs, and Nords and Bosmer and Dunmer and Redguards and Bretons, and Imperials of course, but she had expected those (still seeing so many of them in one place felt strange). She realized that she was gawking, and that it was very rude, but she just couldn't contain herself. Back in Lillandril she could count the non-Altmer living in the city proper on her fingers. And even the foreign merchants or dignitaries usually kept to themselves and didn't mingle with the locals. Or maybe it was the locals not mingling with them. (That seemed more like it, when she thought about it.) Numrien kept spinning around on the pier so she could see everything and everyone. People turned and gave her funny looks, but that was hardly anything new for her. Well, back home the common folks hadn't been quite that obvious about it. The privileges of being the kinlord's daughter. She snorted. But that was all in the past (and would stay there if she had anything to say about it). The idea that no one here knew who she was made her giddy. No obligations! No stilted diplomatic answers to her questions! She could barely keep herself from running to the next best person and start asking them random questions about their everyday life or their world views.

But that had to wait. She remembered that she was still standing in front of the ship on which she had arrived. Around here the captain and some of his crew were the only people who knew who she really was. Numirien needed to get away from them and vanish in the crowd so they wouldn't know where she went. Sooner or later her father would find out which ship she used and if he got his hands on the captain that poor mer would surely spill all her secrets.

Numirien looked around to check that no one was following her and slipped into the stream of people walking towards the city proper.

Numirien's second impression of the Imperial City was one of endless uniformity, rigid symmetry and architecture that was clearly meant to make everyone inside feel insignificant. Every wall and every spire copied the style of the gargantuan structure at the center of the city. The Ayleid influence on the architecture was undeniable. Numierien wondered briefly just how big a part of the city had been built by the original elven occupants. She tilted her head back to look at the palace. So that was White-Gold, the Ayleid Tower. To turn it into the center of a manish Empire had truly been a poetic feat. Her father would have compared it to herding swine in a temple, she was sure. Thinking of him, sitting in his study, drinking fine wine with his Thalmor friends, harping about the inferiority of other races while outside his walls the Empire prospered and men brought greater unity to Tamriel than the country had ever seen under the elvish reign of times long gone by, Numirien couldn't help but laugh.

Admittedly Numirien was slightly disappointed by the architecture. It felt old and stifling and militaristic. She found that she actually missed the open, more scattered layout of Lillandril. But if she had to choose between stifling houses and stifling mindsets (or stifling families who insisted on stifling marriages) she would choose the houses any day.

Soon her mind was drawn away from the buildings again, back to the crowds mingling in the streets. Numirien had half expected to see less diversity away from the harbor in the better quarters of the city. That was not the case. Imperials and Argonians alike were showing off the newest fashion on the streets. Some man was weaving through the stream of people waving a stack of papers. "Everybody needs a copy of the Black Horse Courier!" he shouted and before Numirien knew she held a leaflet in hand that contained some speculations about an affair between people whose names she had never heard before.

"Ah... thank you kindly?" she said, slightly perplexed. But the newspaper deliverer had already moved on. Numirien grinned. What a lively city! She contemplated the sensationalist writing style and the meaningless content for a moment; then she shrugged, folded the piece into a paper bird and threw it into the crowd. It hit an obese Breton woman in the face. She let out an enraged scream and looked for the perpetrator. Numirien hastily ducked behind a pair of orcs. Only when the Breton was out of view did she return to looking around with wide eyes and a constant, stupid smile plastered onto her face.

A group of young men and women in outrageously frilly outfits caught her attention: All of them had hair in the colors of the rainbow. The sight was so outlandish that Numirien stopped dead in her tracks and blinked to make sure that she was seeing correctly. Never in her life had she seen someone with hair colored like that. Rationally she knew that it was possible, probably with the use of alchemy or alteration magic. But the idea had never occurred to her. Which, she realized, was an absolute shame. She had the pale golden hair of all well-bred Altmer, and it was simply _boring_.

Without hesitation she strode over to the group of flamboyant characters. "Greetings, I couldn't help but notice your extraordinary hair. May I ask how you acquired that look, and where I might get one myself?"

"You may," a Redguard with grass green hair replied. One of her friends elbowed her. "Oh, yes, sure... it's that new dye. It's going to be the fashion of the year, I tell you. That nice hair stylist in the Market District..."

The establishment to which Numirien had been directed had an interior that was clearly upscale yet at the same time so eccentric that Numirien was certain just one look at it would give most members of her father's court an instant aneurism. The walls were hung with tapestries of fine quality, the chandelier seemed to be covered in real gold, or something that looked very much like it, all furniture was carved with ornamental decorations and was polished to sheen, and the carpet was clean and fluffy. But none of the candles and tapestries had a color in common with another one. A potted cactus as tall as Numirien stood in one corner of the room and a heavy sent like flowers and sweet fruits hung in the air. The owner of the shop, a middle-aged Breton, looked every inch like the establishment he run. The entire setup was one big sensory overload. Numirien loved it at once.

"Greeting, greetings! What can I do for you on this fine day?" the Breton smiled widely and made a gesture that looked half like an inviting wave of his arm and half like a bow.

"I have heard that you provide hair dyeing services."

"Oh yes, you've heard correctly."

"Can you dye my hair a nice, vibrant shade of pink?"

"Most certainly! Do you also want it done up in a certain style?"

"I'd prefer something a bit messier that's still elegant."

"Alright, take a seat, please. I'll be back in a moment."

Numirien did as asked and watched with fascination as the Breton vanished into some backroom only to come back with an assortment of flasks and flacons a short while later.

The man got to work, brushing her hair, and wrapping strands in tincture soaked pieces of cloth with well-practiced movements. All the time he kept talking about things that sounded like local rumors. Numirien lacked the context, so she just made interested noises or laughed if one of the mentioned people had an especially funny name.

Numirien wasn't quite sure how much time had passed when the man gave a final tuck at her hair and turned one of the nearby mirrors so that she could get a good look at the result. She barely recognized herself. Her hair was practically glowing in an eye-watering shade of pink and was arranged in a way that made her appear daring. Numirien grinned widely. "If my intended could see me now he would never look at me again!"

The stylist's pleasant smile dropped. "Pardon?"

"Oh," Numirien said, turning towards him with a twirl, "if you had met him you would know that that's a great compliment for your work. It's perfect!"

"I understand," the Breton said in that polite tone that people used when they didn't quite know how to react to a possibly sensitive matter that got casually dropped in conversation. (Numirien knew that tone well since she was in a habit of dropping such matters in conversation on a regular basis.) But his smile returned, looking pleased now. "So everything is to your liking?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you very much!" Numirien replied enthusiastically. She got up and started to walk towards the door.

The Breton's smile weakened. "My lady, I'm afraid you've forgotten about the payment. You owe me 80 septims."

Numirien stopped, startled. She opened her mouth and was about to tell him that he should just sent the bill to Kinlord Corridal's mansion. Then it hit her like a ton of brigs that of course she couldn't do that anymore. It should have occurred to her when she left home that she would need to have money if she was going to live anonymously. It was obvious, really. But she had never in her life handled a single coin herself. The very idea of money and payment had just always been so distant that it had completely slipped her mind. She felt her cheeks grow hot. "I'm afraid I currently don't have any money on my person," she admitted. "But I'll return with the payment in a timely fashion." She didn't know where she would get the money yet. But 80 septims wasn't much. She would just do some work. That's what people usually did to get money, right?

The Breton frowned, looking her over as if reevaluating his mental image of her. "Only if you leave me a pledge of equal value since you are a stranger to me with no proven reputation. The ingredients for my potions are expensive, and my time valuable."

Mentally Numirien cursed that she had left all her jewelry at the mansion before slipping away in the night. At the time she had thought it clever not to take anything with her that might prove her identity or that might entice robbers. "Unless you want to take my dress and have me go out naked to get the money I'm afraid I can't do that either. But you will get your payment. I'm as good as my word!"

The Breton lost all remains of politeness, sounding genuinely angry now, "Your word might be good or not. But I won't let you make a fool of me. You _do_ realize that refusing to pay for services rendered is as much of a crime as thievery, don't you? I've had quite enough of this. I'm calling the guards! If what you say is true they can escort you while you retrieve the money!" With that he opened the door and hailed the guards.

This situation was getting way out of hand. Really, it had just been a stupid oversight at her part! Not liking the idea of getting thrown into jail on her first day on Cyrodiilic shores she did what seemed the obvious choice to her: She bolted.

Numirien nimbly dodged the guard who was talking with the hair dresser and almost made it to the end of the street when a second guard stepped into her way and stopped her escape quite abruptly and painfully by slamming his shield in her face.

"Stop! You've violated the law," the man shouted. "I would ask you to pay the fine to the court. But from what that citizen over there just told us I doubt you have the money. So it's jail for you, criminal scum. I hope you rot!"

Numirien's third impression of the Imperial City was one of dank, moldy prison walls and very bad room service. Not to mention the utterly unpleasant company of the Dunmer in the cell opposite hers. On the bright side: They hadn't sent her back to her family yet. And she had awesome pink hair now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize on behalf of Numirien to all the Argonians and Khajiit who take offense at being referred to as 'cats and lizards'. Numirien doesn't mean anything by it. She actually hates racism. But she grew up in a racist enviroment so she sometimes doesn't notice that she's saying or thinking something offensive. She'll learn.
> 
> The whole hair style thing wasn't supposed to take up such a big part of the text but I absolutely wanted to establish a headcanon that explains the weird hair color options in character creation.

**Author's Note:**

> As always I welcome critique and pointers on language. I apologize for any mistakes I might have made. I didn't check this work as thoroughly as usual since I plan to write stuff for other challenges as well, and I can't fully ignore real life either so I'm short on time.


End file.
